


The Difference Between Surviving and Thriving

by InsertSthMeaningful



Series: Marguerite Hair and Iris Eyes [1]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern: Still Have Powers, Cherik Week, Erik Lehnsherr Deserves A Hug, Erik Lehnsherr is a Sweetheart, Erik Lehnsherr is not a Happy Bunny, Flower Language, Fluff, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Light Angst, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mentions of Divorce/Failing Marriage, Mentions of past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24519949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertSthMeaningful/pseuds/InsertSthMeaningful
Summary: One lovely spring afternoon, a Stranger walks into Raven and Irene's coffee slash flower shop and straight into Charles' life. He's deliciously tall, a mutant- and, in Charles' opinion, incredibly sweet when you get to know him, which Charles is more than willing to do.There is only one problem: Charles' Stranger is married.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Series: Marguerite Hair and Iris Eyes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1817041
Comments: 53
Kudos: 98
Collections: Cherik Week 2020





	1. Love-Lies-Bleeding

**Author's Note:**

> My fill for day 3 of Cherik Week: Flower Shop AU. Since I'm top tier level at procrastinating, I'm posting this first chapter while still writing the next ones (what the HECK is my life).  
> All the thanks to my lovely beta [IreneADonovan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IreneADonovan) 🥰

There was a stranger in the flower shop.

Now, of course, it was far from unusual to meet such a creature in a well-frequented business downtown, just short of Central Park and on a street which was so busy it made an ant hill look like a ghost town straight out of a 60s Western. And most strangers were, well, just that: strangers. People whose faces never registered on your fovea. Men and women and everyone who there was in-between, hurrying by you or scrolling through their phones on a crowded subway car. Human lives of which nothing remained but a blurry reflection in a dusty shop window.

But this Stranger was different. Charles suspected it. Charles felt it. And then, Charles  _ knew  _ it.

The Stranger –  _ his  _ Stranger – was standing in front of the cactus rack when Charles turned his head to seek out the person who was the owner of the extraordinary mind which had caught his attention, and he was doing so with an air of mild confusion.

Well, it wasn’t the first time Charles had seen people look a little lost in the face of Raven’s abundance of flowering, blooming, greening products. However, it was indeed the first time he had seen such a prime specimen of ‘people’.

The Stranger was tall, slim, with a jawline that probably could have cut Student Counsellor Frost’s diamond arse, and a shock of ash-white hair that certainly rivalled the contents of her wardrobe. Beneath his well-worn leather jacket, his shoulders were broad though pulled-up, and over his troubled grey-green-blue-whatever-colour-they-were eyes, his eyebrows were knotted together in worry. He was, in short, one of the most stunning and at the same time intriguing men Charles had ever seen.

Wheeling over to let loose one of his pick-up lines spiked with genetic quips was probably not so much of a good idea, Charles furthermore deduced from the waves of anxiety rolling off the Stranger’s psyche. Observation it was, then.

Inconspicuously, he leaned back in his wheelchair, took the brim of his teacup to his lips and watched, or rather,  _ observed  _ from over the rims of his reading glasses. The scientific journal on his lap with the bold headline  _ Winners Or Losers: Will the X-Gene Make Humanity Come Out On Top After All? _ he had long forgotten about.

Then, the Stranger seemed to become increasingly agitated – the shuffling of his feet indicated so, as well as his arms crossed protectively in front of his chest, and for a few too-short seconds Charles was even witness to a curt but intense and, frankly,  _ spectacular _ display of power as the man reached into the pocket of his leather jacket, drew out some spare change, let it flick between his fingers with the air of a mutant who knew how to control his telekinesis and then sent the coins to disappear just as swiftly into his wallet. Now, if the Stranger had let his gaze wander just a little at that very moment, he would have seen one highly mesmerized Charles sizing him up like he was something to eat and probably would have become even more agitated for this reason. Maybe even violent, judging from the sharp edges of his surface thoughts.

Fortunately for Charles’ physical integrity, the Stranger did  _ not _ turn around and catch his stare. Instead, he carried on worrying in quiet despair.

Finally, after fifty-seven more seconds of intense observation, Charles decided to take action and do his good deed of the day. Help a fellow out, maybe even get his number, though the later was more of a bonus than part of the actual deed.

He set down the scientific journal and his cup of tea – careful not to place the latter on top of the former, lest it leave a wet circular patch on the glossy cover –, gripped his wheelrims and manoeuvred from the coffee house section of the Café & Bouquet shop into the one dedicated to floral masterpieces. The chatter around him dimmed lightly as he left the labyrinth of well-occupied tables which Irene had all named after a flower, though the thoughts followed him all the way, and then he found himself only inches from the Stranger’s side, noting how the latter had tensed in anticipation without even having turned his head.

A true telekinetic then, one who had a permanent grasp on all objects around him, moving or inert. Of course, he would have felt Charles approach.

“Good afternoon,” Charles said and induced as much non-threatening politeness as possible into his words, “May I help you with your choice of flowers, perhaps?”

And finally, as the Stranger twisted his torso to face him, Charles felt those colourfully-swirling eyes focused entirely on him. It felt a little like being bathed in the first warm rays of sun after a long, drab winter.

For a heartbeat, the Stranger said nothing, only stared, the flickering of his eyes assessing Charles as he sat there in his wheelchair and indigo cardigan and favourite fingerless gloves and waited. Then, with a voice that might have wanted to be soft but was twisted into harsh inflections brought about by past woes, he asked, “Are you… the owner?”

Charles smiled at that. A question in answer to a question, and one that made sense. His Stranger seemed to be an ardent follower of logic and not necessarily someone who enjoyed laying his very private thoughts bare.

“I’m afraid not,” he answered and shot a gaze over to where Raven, her bright orange overall a stark contrast against the rich azure of her skin, was talking wedding bouquets with a couple at her counter. Then, he remembered how Irene had greeted him enthusiastically when he came in, set his favourite Earl Grey blend in front of him and promptly predicted that whenever a moment of fate-changing decision arrived this fine spring afternoon, she would with a probability of 100% be busy at the coffee machine. “And unfortunately, both owners are occupied at the moment. But if you have any questions concerning flower language and the arrangement of a bouquet, I do indeed possess certain expertise in the field.”

He did not go into detail about how a few years ago, he had simply pulled an all-nighter to learn everything about floristry and the symbolism of various blooming plants after Raven had announced to him that she and her wife would open a flower slash coffee shop at a walking distance from Columbia University. Possessing an eidetic memory was certainly one of the advantages of being born a telepath.

The Stranger nodded- and said nothing. His lips remained sealed and his hands knotted together in front of his waist, because of social awkwardness or simple indifference, Charles could not pinpoint.

However, Charles decided to persist. “I’m a regular patron here, so I’m confident I should be able to help you out. Combine that with the fact that I’m also the resident telepath-”

And now that, he found out promptly, had been the wrong thing to say.

The Stranger did not merely frown in disdain like most people would at the mention of Charles’ mutation. No, he  _ physically shrank back _ , and shields Charles hadn’t noticed before went up in his mind, effectively clamming it closed to each and every telepathic probe.

“What do you know about me?” he rasped out, pupils blown in either aggression or fear (Charles was not sure which, or if there was even much of a difference).

He tried a small, guilty smile. “My apologies. I didn’t know you were so…  _ averse  _ to mutants of my kind. And I’m pretty sure I know less about you than you think I do.”

Maybe this Stranger wasn’t so different from all the others after all.

The Stranger stood and stared. And suddenly, he nodded, smiled back – though Charles didn’t for the life of him know if it was really a smile or just a sneer of sorrow disguised as one – and said, “I actually don’t know what I’m doing. I mean, these cacti… If you had to send your spouse a passive-aggressive flower gift, would a cactus do?”

For the length of a heartbeat, Charles eyed him suspiciously. Why the sudden change of mood? Only now did he notice the shadows under those mesmerizing eyes, the unshaven stubble on that killer jaw, the high-end clothing beneath the leather jacket which seemed all-too-stiff for Charles’ first impression of the man (which had not been that he would have looked gorgeous in something plaid or something flannel maybe… except that it had).

Well, he had to answer eventually. So, he took a deep breath and said, “I’m not at all sure cacti would be a good gift to your spouse, and not only because some would not categorize them as flowers. In fact, I  _ do  _ think it would be worse for the cactus than for the gifted to be used in their stead. You see, cacti can survive in a hostile environment – which, in this case, would be your dissatisfied spouse’s close vicinity –, but only in good hands will they really thrive.”

The stranger swallowed, nodded. “Alright then. You said you knew about flower language… In that case, indulge me.”

“Of course.” The Stranger had nice, wiry hands, too, Charles had just noticed, so he decided to ignore the slightly impolite phrasing in favour of getting to see a little more of the man. “Well, for a start, I can’t be sure how useful my knowledge actually is, seeing as it’s spring and I don’t know if any of these flowers are actually in season, but let’s have a go either way. You don’t plan on really breaking up with your wife?”

“Husband. And no. He just… We’re in one of our phases again.” The Stranger lowered his gaze, effectively avoiding Charles’ own, rather inquiring one, and drew away one hand to reveal a glistening wedding band on the annular finger of the other. The gold was twisting this and that way, like snakes in a pit. “I just need to cool off a little. Calm my head, as he says.”

Quite involuntarily, one of Charles’ eyebrows went up. He was no couples therapist, but this… This didn’t exactly sound like love, peace and harmony.

“Petunias for anger and resentment, then,” he recalled, nevertheless. “It seems you’ve got a lot of those. Then you should maybe ask for begonias as well. They signify deep thinking, which in the case of your husband might be more than appropriate.”

“Petunia and begonia.” The Stranger nodded and tapped his wrist twice with his fingers, a memorising technique which Charles found just so incredibly endearing. But there was no bloody way he would make that known. “Anything else?”

“Oh. Well, in fact…” Charles leaned back in his chair, put a finger to the dip beneath his lips as though he was intensely trying to remember – and as the Stranger thought he wasn’t looking, Charles glanced up from under his lashes and studied that face more closely.

Those cheekbones. The bow of those lips. Those tiny locks of petal-white hair curling at the nape of the Stranger’s neck.

And those eyes, focussed entirely on Charles’ lips – whether they did so subconsciously or not was unimportant.

The Stranger gave a start when Charles straightened up and proclaimed, “Of course! Love-lies-bleeding would be an excellent addition. More commonly known as amaranth, this flower stands both for hopeless love and hopelessness itself.” Just for a split-second, he managed to catch the Stranger’s eye before the latter looked away, pinching his lips. Apparently, someone didn’t like to be caught off-guard. “Does that sound good to you? Raven just finished with her last customers, she’s up by the counter just waiting for your order, if you want to go through with it.”

Quietly, softly, the Stranger exhaled. “Yes. Thank you.” He blinked, as though waking from a long, unsettling dream, and when his eyes found Charles’, there was a strange spark of determined hesitation in them. “I–”

And then, in an instant, the spark was gone. One last time, the Stranger nodded to Charles before he turned on his heels and headed for the back of the shop, where Raven was scribbling down orders and stock numbers. She lifted her head and smiled expectantly at the Stranger as he drew near.

Charles sighed, gripped the hand rims of his chair and returned to his seat at his usual table by the window. His tea had gone cold, and the masses of strangers hustling and bustling by on the sidewalk outside had thinned out.

When he turned his head after a few minutes of reading the same line of  _ Winners Or Losers: Will the X-Gene Make Humanity Come Out On Top After All? _ over and over again to maybe catch another glimpse of the gorgeously tall Stranger, Raven was alone by the counter, sorting cash into the register and smiling quietly to herself. There were rests of the crinkling plastic she usually used for bouquets lying in front of her, and one single crimson love-lies-bleeding was trailing on the floor in front of her wrapping table where it must have dropped out of her sight.

Charles’ Stranger had gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, please consider leaving kudos and a comment. It doesn't have to be anything elaborate (a "loved it!" or "+kudos" would already make my day), but for an author, it's always lovely to see that their writing has touched someone so much that they take the time to type out a few short words (:


	2. Charles' Blue Iris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik returns in summer, full of hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemme just yeet this out there.

The second time the Stranger dropped by, Charles felt his heart plummet just a little.

The love-lies-bleeding seemed to have done their job, just as the petunias and begonias. There was a slight smile playing on the Stranger’s lips – if you could call the quirk of one corner of the mouth a smile – as he pushed open the door without so much as even looking at the handle, let his gaze roam over the coffee shop section of Café & Bouquet and then made a beeline for Charles’ table.

Outside, spring had given way to summer, and the sun’s light was sending its late-afternoon honey glow straight through the shop vitrines. Slanting over the Stranger’s deliciously slim figure, it painted his frame in just all the right shades of gold, crimson and grey. And also, he wasn’t even wearing his leather jacket, but had it casually slung over a shoulder like he did not have a care in the world.

You could really not blame Charles for zoning out a few seconds at the sight.

“Hello again,” the Stranger said as he came to a comfortably relaxed standstill in front of Charles, and if last time his voice had been but a rasp of slate on steel, it was a purr greased with honey and sugar this time.

“Ah, hullo,” Charles replied, doing his very best not to crumple up the pages of the book in his grasp from how intensely his hands wanted to hold on to anything at all (‘anything at all’ being, in this context, the Stranger’s gorgeous chin, or his gorgeous waist, or his gorgeous wrists-). “How are we doing this fine day?”

“Well.” A wave of the hand, and the wrought-iron chair opposite Charles slithered back on the tiled floor of the café. “Mind if I sit?”

Charles was quick to shake his head. Very quick. “Not at all.”

The Stanger settled on his seat with a barely audible sigh of content, and when he looked up, he did so with a sparkle in his eyes quite unlike the one Charles had observed last time.

It was no more determination borne from despair. It was – and Charles despised himself for wanting to turn back the time and undo his good advice – _hope_.

“I guess I owe you a thank you for last time, in April,” the Stranger finally spoke up after he had given Irene’s beverage menu lying on the table a quick glance. “And an apology, too.”

“Oh? I’ll gladly receive your thanks, but I wouldn’t know for what you should possibly apologise.” Slowly, Charles placed a bookmark at the next chapter’s beginning, closed his reading material and placed it on the table, his tea set neatly aside.

The Stranger gave an embarrassed half-shrug, his mind clouding over with a pleasant shade of rose. So, he was far from untouchable then. “I… wasn’t on my best behaviour that week, I’m afraid. That thing I said about your telepathy-” He paused, one hand going to straighten the collar of his (still unfittingly expensive, was his husband also his sugar daddy?) polo shirt in an almost pre-programmed gesture- “I just saw how it affected you. I’m sorry that I lashed out at you, a _fellow mutant_ , like that. It’s just that I haven’t exactly had pleasant experiences with psionics before.”

Oh. _Oh._ Maybe this Stranger was different after all.

“It’s no problem.” Charles smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “I have endured worse reactions.”

Something the Stranger’s gaze hardened. Ah, mutation and how it was treated seemed to be a touchy subject, then.

“That does in no way justify my behaviour,” the Stranger promptly said. “Let me make it up to you. Can I buy you another drink?”

Quickly, Charles nodded to his tea. “I’m good, thank you. Though there is something you could do for me, Mr…?”

“Erik. Please, just call me Erik.”

“Erik.” Oh no, those couldn’t possibly be _feelings_ rearing their head in Charles’ chest, or could they? Bloody hell, the Stranger was a married man!

“Well then, Erik–” Charles smiled the screaming of his thoughts away– “I know this may be a bit too private an enquiry, and there is no need for you to answer me, but… would you mind telling me what your mutation is?”

You see, Charles had thought he was walking, or in his case _wheeling_ on thin ice with that, and that there was a high probability he wouldn’t get an answer save for a slap in the face with the decorative metal bucket standing between them on the table. He was, in fact, already preparing to dodge said very hard and potentially very nose-damaging object while also saving the arrangement of dainty aquilegia flowers it was holding.

Well, Charles couldn’t have been more wrong.

“That’s a small price to pay,” the Stranger – Erik – told him and grinned a many-toothed grin, relaxing backwards in his chair. “I’m afraid I’m just a lowly metallokinetic, nothing more. I hope I don’t disappoint.”

Who had ever told this man he was a disappointment? Charles just wanted their number and address and blood type – and maybe their heart on a silver platter, while you’re at it.

“Oh, please,” he scoffed, “any mutation is as wonderful as it is unique. Did you know that in fact, we telepaths are far more common than kinetics who can manipulate various components of our surroundings? You, my friend, are a fine specimen with a _very groovy_ mutation.”

Erik’s jaw did not quite hit the floor, but it did come close. “Oh. Thank you, I guess.”

Charles sighed and bit his lower lip. And his cheeks, goddamnit, were heating up with inappropriate tempo. “Oh dear. I’m sorry. Did I really just call you a ‘specimen’?”

“A fine one.” Erik nodded. “It’s the first time someone has ever called me that, and I have to admit I could get used to it.”

Charles took off his reading glasses which he hadn’t noticed had been perched on his nose for the past few minutes and raised one eyebrow. “You can’t be serious. _Someone_ at least must have called you fine in the past.”

And there was that grin again. “I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about the specimen-bit.”

This time, Charles gave in to all the shame and embarrassment and buried his face in his hands. “I’m a disaster,” moaned he, conscious of the buttercup-yellow amusement flickering over the surface of Erik’s mind.

“Aren’t we all a little, Mr…? Ah, I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name last time.”

“That’s because I didn’t _introduce_ myself that last time.” Charles straightened up and extended a (this time un-gloved) hand over the tabletop. “Charles Xavier and add a bunch of letters in front of that because I’m something like a professor. Nice to meet you, Erik.”

Erik’s grip was warm, solid and just a bit moist. Well, Charles was glad he wasn’t the only one with sweaty hands here.

“Nice to meet you. So, you said you were something of a professor?” That slight smile back on his lips and in the crinkles of his eyes, Erik tilted his head just so in the soft sunlight streaming in through the window and made Charles’ heart flutter abominably in his chest.

Not fair.

“I am, and if you want me to tell you about it, I can?” Charles couldn’t resist the urge to lift a hand and card his fingers through his hair – which was in desperate need of a haircut, he just noticed. What he also noticed was the casual way Erik’s eyes tracked his movement, and still it somehow seemed just a tad bit too interested for a man who should be happily married. “But first, let me order you a drink. You seem like a coffee guy.”

Erik’s eyes snapped back to Charles’. “I am. Did you read my mind?”

“No.” Charles’ turn to grin. “But I do think I’m not completely socially incompetent at times. Now, what would you like?”

Shaking his head, Erik started digging for his wallet in the pockets of his leather jacket he had slung over the back of his chair. He had to twist his torso as he did, and for a few short seconds, Charles wished he had a camera so he could capture that perfect moment, that perfectly trim waist for eternity.

“You needn’t pay, Charles. I offered you a drink first, so there’s no way–”

“Let me at least place your order with the barista, then.” Charles waggled his fingers at his temple.

One of Erik’s eyebrows went up. “You’re allowed to do that?”

Charles chuckled. “She’s my sister-in-law, one of the most powerful precogs in the States and famous for bamboozling me with her predictions every chance she gets. So yes, I do think I’m allowed to communicate with her.”

This time, as Erik’s sweet smile once more widened into a grin to rival the glow of the sun on the cracked pavement outside, Charles damn near cursed himself for not just shamelessly snapping a picture with his phone.

And when Erik said, “I think I would very much like to hear everything about your _academic titles_ , Professor Xavier,” and his voice sent a jolt of longing so intense it made him light-headed straight to his gut, Charles knew he was in real trouble this time.

So, it came that Charles telepathically ordered an Iced Americano for the Aquilegia Table and then spent the remainder of the afternoon discussing his genetics and psychology lectures at Columbia, arguing the benefits of tea versus coffee and slowly but surely falling for a man he shouldn’t at all have fallen for. And all this while he actually should have been poring over the assignments his students had handed in four weeks ago already.

Just his luck, apparently.

The evening rush hour had gone by and the café had emptied considerably when Erik showed first signs of time pressure. Then, after Raven had come over to replace the flower deco on the table, give Erik a friendly smile and shoot Charles an enthusiastic thumbs-up behind his back, he gave a miserable glance at his wrist watch and an even more miserable one at Charles and said, “I really should get going now. It has been a pleasure to talk with you for so long, Charles.”

“Of course.” Charles smiled, but he didn’t really feel it.

“By the way,” Erik muttered and shot a glance over to where Irene was busy wiping the kitchen counter and changing the food display from sweet to savoury so more evening guests would come in and stay, “this café really is a mutant hot spot, isn’t it? I’ve never seen so many of our kind in one place, except for rallies or such.”

“It is a safe haven,” Charles agreed. “Raven and Irene hold support groups here every other Thursday evening, and they close down the premises for various pro-mutant organisations if the need for hosting space arises. In a way, they’re the beating heart of mutantdom all over NYC.”

“Good to know.” Then, Erik’s face lit up anew and he reached into his pocket to draw out a few scraps of metal, which looked like he had extracted them from various electronic devices and quite a many spare change congregations he might have found in his trouser pockets. “Here, let me leave you a souvenir.”

And ere Charles could decline because no, that would be too much to ask of his new friend, the iron and nickel and whatever other components there were to this strange alloy twisted, spun out in strands of gold and silver and blue, and it wasn’t a minute before an iris – so life-like Charles almost touched its petals to see if they were soft – floated down and landed softly on the table top in front of Charles’ tea cup.

“Oh,” Charles breathed, and then, “Stunning.”

“You think? Thank you.” Erik tilted his head in that way Charles had come to adore. “It’s a blue iris, because it symbolises hope and faith, and you made me hope again for my marriage last time and gave me the strength to renew my faith in it. I googled it.”

“You googled it.” Charles felt the skin around his eyes crinkle in joy, and though it irked him just a little to see that this wasn’t a rose or a myrtle or even a pomegranate and to know that it would never be, he leaned as far towards Erik as he could allow himself without seeming needy and said, “Thank you, Erik. I think this is the most gorgeous gift anyone has ever made for me.”

It was a delight to see a light blush suddenly dusting his Stranger’s cheeks. “I’m glad you like it. I thought it looked a little like your eyes.” And after a clearing of his throat, “Well, I really should be going now. I’ll try to drop by another time, but I can’t make any promises.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Charles whispered, and louder, “Take your time, Erik, and stay safe. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

And with a last blue-grey-green glance from his jade eyes and the cheerful jingle of the doorbell as he pulled the handle without touching it, Erik walked out of the Café & Bouquet and out of Charles’ life for a whole three months. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, please consider leaving kudos and a comment. It doesn't have to be anything elaborate (a "loved it!" or "+kudos" would already make my day), but for an author, it's always lovely to see that their writing has touched someone so much that they take the time to type out a few short words (:


	3. Forget-Me-Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's autumn, and the mood of Erik's visit certainly fits this dullest of the seasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, what can I say... I just like seeing Erik in distress? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> This chapter was beated by the amazing [FlightInFlame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightinflame/pseuds/flightinflame) 💖

The third time Erik walked into the Café & Bouquet, Charles wished his secret, totally immoral dreams (which were that his beautiful Stranger wouldn’t be able to save his marriage after all and then search for completely innocent consolation with Charles) hadn’t come true after all.

Erik looked different. He was no longer the jovial, hopeful fellow with which Charles had spent that whole afternoon back in summer, and neither was he the less lively but still astonishing Stranger he had first laid eyes upon all those months back in spring.

In fact, even saying Erik was but the shadow of the man he had once been would have sounded like an understatement.

Charles swallowed and watched his friend approach the Aquilegia Table. Erik’s walk was sluggish, careful, as though he feared for the shadows of the autumn evening to come alive and grasp at him with their long, cold claws. He was thinner beneath his straight-from-work, suit-and-tie business ensemble, too, and this time even Charles had to admit it did no longer border on sexy, but on disturbing. The shadows under his eyes had become broad brushstrokes.

Then, Erik was there, at the table, and Charles braced himself for impact.

“Good evening, Erik,” he greeted, voice barely daring to rise above a whisper.

“Hello, Charles,” Erik gave back in an equally lacklustre fashion. “I’m sorry. It’s been so long.”

Charles glanced outside. Indeed, the rich emerald and gold tones of summer had been replaced by tones of moist grey and brown, intermingling with the red-yellow-orange symphony of fallen leaves on the pavement. Months. Months had passed.

“Don’t be sorry, Erik,” he said and turned, “I’m sure that whatever kept you from visiting us again, it was something important. Please, sit. You look like you could do with a nice warm coffee.”

The grateful look his Stranger gave him then was all the answer he needed. “Thank you,” Erik murmured, pulled out the chair opposite Charles and sat slowly, though it looked like he would rather straight-up slump down with exhaustion. “Let me just look at the drinks menu. I might not be in the mood for caffeine.”

He had barely cast off his suit jacket and draped it over his backrest when Irene sauntered over, with that serene smile of hers broadening her rose mouth, holding a steaming cup of… something.

“Is that hot chocolate?” Charles asked and smiled, despite the dull mood Erik had let in from the streets when he had waved the shop’s door open.

“What- How did you-? Oh, right.” Erik gestured abortively towards his own temples. “Precognition and telepathy. I forgot.”

Irene chuckled and slowly set down the cup of sweet, creamy liquid, trusting her mutation to make up for her lack of sight. “Don’t worry. You’ll remember next time.” And when Erik went to reach for his wallet, she laid her warm dry palm on his wrist and said in her deep satin voice, “It’s on the house, darling.”

Before he could protest, the precog had turned away and was walking back to her counter in a way that made earthly existence seem easy and graceful. Erik stared after her for a few heartbeats before he turned to Charles, eyes wide in awe.

“Yes, she’s always like that,” Charles beat him to his question.

Then, they descended into silence. His eyes devoid of emotion, Erik was staring at his hot chocolate without taking a sip, and Charles sat there awkwardly, keeping his Stranger company as best he could without overstepping any boundaries. In the end, it was Erik who should be the one to open up, to explain the roiling dark clouds flitting over the dull steel surface of his mind.

Something tickled Charles’ index wrist where he had draped his hand over the iPad in his lap. He peeked down inconspicuously- and was met with the sight of a single tiny flower nestled on top of his knees, where the blanket bunched up just below the edge of the polished tabletop. Its sky-blue petals lay innocently, and its honey-yellow middle was staring at Charles like one of Raven’s eyes.

 _Why would you sneak me a myosotis out of all flowers you could have possibly asked from Raven, Irene?_ he went to needle his sister-in-law.

Her shapely mind welcomed him with a crackling fireplace warmth. The velvety aroma of freshly ground coffee beans was tickling her nose. Nearby the coffee machine was purring as she handled cups and saucers, feeling their smooth porcelain with care, and somewhere there was the inkling that Raven would come over from the flower shop any moment now to demand a kiss from her beautiful, beautiful wife.

Charles grinned and retreated a little. He didn’t feel the need to experience every such action first-hand.

 _It’s for your boy, Charles_ , Irene was replying, _and don’t you forget the other name for that plant._

Oh.

 _I won’t_ , Charles promised, before he saw Raven throw up her hands in despair out of the corner of his eyes and watched her sweep the flower shop one last time for customers– of which there were none anymore at this hour – with a glance out of her forget-me-not eyes. Then, she turned on her heels to make a beeline for her Irene behind the coffee shop’s display counter.

Charles thought it a wise decision to choose this very moment to draw back entirely from the precog’s mind. And really, he had hardly returned his attention to his gloomy Stranger sitting opposite him when a quiet squeal sounded through the Café & Bouquet, obviously caused by one woman gripping another around her waist from behind and peppering butterfly kisses on the nape of her neck.

Smiling, Charles nodded to Erik’s once hot beverage, which could now be classified as a rather lukewarm one. “Your hot chocolate looks like it’s getting cold.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Promptly, Erik reached forward and took the cup to his lips. Charles hated that it looked like a response he had been trained to utter and act upon as soon as someone commanded him to.

Then, Erik’s frown smoothed out. “This… This is actually really good. Now I’m regretting not drinking it earlier.” His eyes flickered over to where he supposed Irene to be, and promptly returned to lock with Charles’, a slight blush now dusting his cheeks. “Ah. They’re together? Looks like they’re having fun right now.”

Charles glanced over to where Irene and Raven were mounting a serious case of PDA and averted his gaze just as quickly as Erik. “They’ve been married for seven years and have been bugging me with their TMI even further back, yes. But I’m sure you will be able to send your compliments to the kitchen later.”

“Yes. Um.” And once again, Erik’s cheeks returned to their sickly pallor. “Do they… Is that her second mutation? Making such a good hot chocolate?”

“No.” Charles softened his voice, all-too glad he could indulge Erik in some small talk and maybe take his mind off certain matters. “But they do employ an assistant who can communicate with coffee machines and the likes, a very specialised technopath.”

“Really?”

“No.”

This time, Erik huffed, and then Charles felt like he was witnessing the sunrise on an entirely alien, utterly beautiful planet no other man had ever set foot on.

Erik’s face, so haggard and tired before, was alight with a smile. A small one, a shy one, one that looked like it was ready to disappear and hide away in a cave as soon as it sensed even the slightest inkling of danger, but it was there.

Charles decided now was the time to move their conversation forward to the real issues.

“Erik,” he asked casually and started fiddling with the tag of his tea bag, “why have you come to see me? There’s clearly something bothering you.”

And as Erik’s face fell and his smile disappeared, Charles decided that he was a complete and utter prick and that now was, in fact, _not_ the time to move their conversation forward to the real issues.

“I’m sorry,” he rushed to say, “I’m so sorry, I really didn’t mean it like that. I’m an idiot, oh, Erik–”

“It’s alright. Charles, it’s alright.” Erik lowered his eyes, and the table’s wrought-iron legs creaked. “You’re right, it’s not fair that I only ever run back to you just to clutter you with my personal problems.”

“That–” Charles leaned forward and propped a fist up on the table– “ _i_ _s not what I said._ Erik, talk to me. I want to make you feel better.”

At first, he thought that had been the wrong thing to say. Then, Erik glanced up, and Charles could see all the bottled-up stubbornness, all the anger, all the sadness behind those jade eyes, and how his words had been the straw to break the camel’s back.

The first tears fell before Charles even got so far as to uncurl his fist and reach out to cover Erik’s hand with his, and when he finally did, his Stranger’s fingers were trembling like leaves in the wind.

His head lowered self-consciously, Erik then proceeded to tell him everything; the proposal he hadn’t been able to refuse and after which an all-too short period of seventh heaven had followed; the nights and weeks and months spent alone, hung up between rushing through work and silently waiting for his husband to gift him with rare slivers of attention; the instants in which he had got said attention – more than he would have liked, actually – and had been made to feel like he had bitten off more than he could chew.

“The sad thing is,” he finally rasped out, voice rough, the handkerchief Charles had handed him soaked, “I don’t think I’ve fallen out of love. It’s just that I think I’ve never been in love in the first place, and I knew it. But I still did all this to myself.”

“Erik…” Charles breathed, and then didn’t find any more words.

“You’re shocked now.” Erik grinned humourlessly, all bared teeth and dead, furious eyes. “But I’ve forgotten one detail: He’s a mutant, too. Specialised in energy absorption and conversion, a force to be reckoned with. And he _loves_ to use it.”

Then, Charles found it difficult to speak for another reason than lack of words.

Erik had disentangled his hand from Charles’, undone the buttons on the sleeve of his dress shirt and gingerly folded away the bone-white fabric. And now, there were bruises staring right up at Charles, both faded and new; green, black, purple.

“Erik, you have to get out of there,” he said tonelessly when his chest finally didn’t feel like the wind had just been knocked right out of him. “ _Now._ ”

There was panic laced into Erik’s chuckle. “How? He could kill me with a snap of his fingers, you know.”

“It’s not for nothing that you are sitting here in NYC’s most popular mutant café, Erik. We know people. There are systems in place, lawyers. Here,” Charles said and reached for a serviette and a pen, “that is the number of a cop we’re friendly with in the Police Department. His mutation is adaption, he’s built to virtually withstand each and any mutant attack, even psychic ones. Call him and let him get you out of there.”

“You really think this could work?”

“I do, Erik. You _will_ make it.” Charles took Erik’s hand in his and squeezed. “ _I promise_.”

Erik took a stuttering breath, and then another one.

“Yes,” he finally muttered, “thank you. I should probably go now, in that case. Set things in motions as fast as possible. Thank you, Charles, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, and yes, you go do that.” Charles smiled, though he did not really feel like it, and watched as Erik got up, almost placed cash on the table because he had forgotten Irene’s assurance that the hot chocolate was “on the house, darling” and finally shrugged on his suit jacket. “And Erik?”

The spoken-to turned one last time, jaw set in determination. “Yes, Charles?”

Charles withdrew his hand from under the table and handed his gorgeous, strong Stranger the sky-blue blossom Irene had sneaked him what seemed like a lifetime ago. “Here. For luck.”

The corners of Erik’s mouth flickered upwards. “Forget-me-not?”

And Charles agreed, “Forget-me-not.”

Then, for what he did not yet know would be the last time, he watched as Erik stepped through the door and was promptly swallowed by the stream of passers-by. He watched and watched and watched– even long after his Stranger’s shock of white hair had disappeared from view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, please consider leaving kudos and a comment. It doesn't have to be anything elaborate (a "loved it!" or "+kudos" would already make my day), but for an author, it's always lovely to see that their writing has touched someone so much that they take the time to type out a few short words (:


	4. The Red and the Striped Carnation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After almost half a year of waiting, Charles thought he would never hear of Erik again.  
> But he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am Sleep Deprived™. But Cherik get nice things! 
> 
> Even though this is just the Paris Chess Proposal all over again 🤔
> 
> Once again many thanks to [FlightInFlame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightinflame/pseuds/flightinflame) for the beta 💙

Slowly, autumn faded, losing its lustre like old sepia photographs. Charles dug out his fingerless gloves from the depths of his closet.

Winter came and went. The fingerless gloves were joined by ones _wi_ _th_ fingers, worn over or beneath Charles’ favourite hand wear.

Only by the time spring had decided to breeze in and each and every pair of gloves had once again been stuffed at the back of a drawer did Charles see Erik again.

There was nothing special about the silvery jingle of the Café & Bouquet’s minuscule shopkeeper’s bell. Charles glanced up quickly – a strange habit of longing he had adopted since that very faithful evening in autumn – before his eyes were drawn back to the pages of the scientific journal he had purchased earlier this day during lunchbreak. The date on the cover read almost the same as that of the spring afternoon when he had seen Erik for the very first time.

One year. Almost one whole year. Charles had only seen Erik three times, and still it felt as though he had known the man for a lifetime already. And then for another lifetime, during which Erik had disappeared and never let hear of himself again.

Sometimes, life was just not fair.

He was torn from his musings by someone clearing their throat in front of him. He looked up, one hand going to pull down his reading glasses so he could study whoever dared to interrupt him over their metal frame like the old, grumpy professor he feared he was in the process of becoming– and froze.

Erik. Erik was standing there, on the other side of the table, and he was smiling a guilty, lopsided and utterly _breath-taking_ smile.

“Hello, Charles,” said the Stranger who had haunted so many of Charles’ dreams and quite a few of his waking moments, and he said so as though he had never left.

Erik was– Well, he wasn’t just (“just”) gorgeous anymore. He was radiant.

“You bastard!” Charles exclaimed, turning some heads in the crowded coffee shop and not giving a bloody damn. “Erik! What– You’re here?”

“I am here,” the spoken-to confirmed with a cat-got-the-cream smile, and with a casual wave of his hand, the chair opposite Charles was drawn back. “Mind if I sit?”

“Dear me, _not at all._ " Quickly, Charles took off his reading glasses and stowed them away in their case. Then, he leaned forward, stacked his hands under his chin and watched as Erik settled in.

His Stranger looked different. Oh-so different. The stiff high-end clothing had been replaced by a plaid red-and-black flannel ( _called it_ , Charles thought), worn over a thick parka providing perfect shielding from the early-morning chill. There was a slight silver stubble on Erik’s cheeks, his marguerite hair was ruffled comfortably and his chestnut skin looked like he went outside a lot, to breathe in the fresh air, to revel in the freedom life had allowed him at last. Waves of contentment and calm were rolling over the surface of his thoughts like clouds in the atmosphere of a hitherto peacefully undiscovered planet.

To Charles, Erik looked, for lack of more fitting vocabulary, soft. Content and healthy and _soft_.

Charles shot an inconspicuous glance at the ladybug red carnation and the yellow-and-honey striped one Irene had tucked into the aquilegia bouquet as soon as he had wheeled up to his usual table. “Today is a day of decisions,” she had announced and then proceeded to fill him in about the weather of the following days, so that he had never found the chance to ask her what she actually meant by that.

Well, it looked like he was about to find out.

“You look good,” Erik once again interrupted the train of his thoughts. “The old-and-grumpy professor look suits you in a weirdly attractive way.”

“Thank you now.” Charles glanced up and was immediately pinned down by that jade gaze, like a hapless butterfly on a pin. “The same can be said about you. What, have you gone into farming?”

Erik grinned at that, grinned the relaxed grin of a predator who knew he would go unchallenged in each and every case. “Yes, I have, actually. I do think it’s rather becoming me.”

“Mind telling the tale?”

“Not at all.” Erik stretched in his seat, moaned softly, and Charles felt like his eyeballs would explode right out of their sockets any moment now from how hard he was staring. “Though I would like to order fir–”

“Consider it done.” Charles took his fingers from his temple and smiled. “Right this very instant, Irene is preparing a Latte Macchiato for you – my treat, of course.”

This time, Erik didn’t smile, or grin or laugh like talking to Charles was a game he planned to win. No. This time, he blushed, and Charles thought that was a highly unfair weapon to possess.

“Thank you,” his stunning Stranger said softly, and then a little louder, as though to distract from the bloom on his cheeks, “I see they have pin boards for advertisements here. How much does it cost? It doesn’t really matter; we just want to put up a notice.”

“Who is ‘we’?” Charles asked, smiling his thanks at Irene when she sashayed over, placed Erik’s coffee in front of him and glid away as quickly and inconspicuously as she had come. “And what kind of notice? Tell me everything.”

“This kind of notice,” Erik said and pulled an A4 paper from a rucksack Charles hadn’t noticed he had been carrying.

It looked a little like an old advertisement for the recruitment of settlers, with pictures of rolling fields rich in crops and photographs of neat little homesteads. Families were assembled in front of them – elderly, adults, children, all of them lined up and smiling – and Charles spotted quite a many physical mutations among them. The headline of the poster read _A Safe Haven For All Mutants – Join Us_.

“And _we_ ,” Erik said, folding his hands to a little tent on the tabletop like he was about to tell Charles the most extraordinary story he had ever lived, “are the people of Genosha.”

“I thought I should also drop by to finally buy some of those cacti,” Erik said after his recounting of what he had been up to in that half-a-year had left Charles gaping and speechless. “The lawyers sued my ex-husband into oblivion, and most of the money I used to fuel the setup of Genosha, but I think there’s enough left to provide some of those little guys with a home.”

“So they can thrive,” Charles agreed numbly, taking an absent-minded sip of his tea.

Erik nodded. “Thrive instead of simply survive, like I did during all those long years.”

Charles drew in a deep breath. Erik had succeeded, and more than that: He had built a home for himself, a mutant colony which would welcome any member of their species, no matter their age, skin colour, beliefs or sexual orientation. A mutant paradise.

One in whose name he had also just issued an invitation to Charles himself.

“You really want me there,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. “Me, a professor of genetics and psychology on a mutant farm island. This very instant, or as soon as I can wrap up my affairs here. But what use could I possibly be to you?”

Erik swayed forward, grasped Charles’ hands in his. There was still that question, that plea written all over his face. “Yes, Charles, I want you there, as soon as possible. Please? And as for your occupation, we will find something to do for you. _Everyone_ will find something to do.”

Charles bit his lip, lowered his eyes. This felt like a request he should take more time to contemplate than but a few heartbeats.

And still… And still.

“You have done so much for me,” Erik was saying, “please let _me_ do something for _you_ now. There has to be more to life than teaching human students, living peacefully in a city of humans and still being faced with their human prejudices every day.”

“There has to be… There is…” Charles murmured, and then louder, “Alright, Erik. Let me make a decision.”

Erik sat back and watched curiously as Charles reached over, drew the two carnations in full bloom from the table’s aquilegia bouquet and placed them neatly on the tabletop in front of him.

The first one Charles picked up was the striped one, the one that looked like its snow-white petals had been dipped in liquid honey and gold.

“This,” he said, holding it up so Erik could study it from close up, “is a striped carnation. It stands for refusal, for rejection. For saying no.” He watched Erik’s face fall, then placed it gingerly on his saucer. “I don’t think we need it right now.”

Erik was leaning forward on his seat, mind thrumming with bright-orange anticipation.

Charles reached for the primary-red carnation.

“And this,” he told his one-man audience, gingerly holding the flower by its short stem, “this is a red carnation of solid colour.”

Erik’s breath hitched when Charles leaned forward as far as he could in his wheelchair, took a hold of his Stranger’s flannel and carefully threaded the carnation’s stem through a buttonhole. His grey-green-blue eyes were tracking every movement of Charles, mesmerized. As mesmerized probably as Charles had been from the very second he had first laid eyes upon this stunning, wonderfully unyielding Stranger.

Charles grinned.

“And a solid red carnation means _yes_.”

So then did it come that instead of watching Erik leave for the fourth time, Charles left with him. And as he smiled back at Raven and Irene giving him the thumbs-up from behind the counter; as Erik by his side rested a hand on his shoulder like it had always belonged there; as they dove into the stream of countless strangers on the sidewalk outside and were swept away by it– As Charles left everything he thought was safe and secure behind to follow the man he loved, he knew he was doing the right thing.

He _knew._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, please consider leaving kudos and a comment. It doesn't have to be anything elaborate (a "loved it!" or "+kudos" would already make my day), but for an author, it's always lovely to see that their writing has touched someone so much that they take the time to type out a few short words (:


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